The Storyteller of Casablanca (12)
I didn’t need to ask her what kind of trouble. I’ve seen the same stars painted roughly on the doors of certain shops and houses, along with the printed notices pasted on to walls and even some shop windows saying that, by order of the Préfecture de Police, Jewish businesses are to be avoided and Jewish people have to obey certain rules. It frightened me a bit the first time I saw a notice like that here in Casablanca. But Papa told me that Morocco is ruled not only by the Vichy government but also by a Sultan called Mohammed the Fifth. He is a kind person and as well as being a Sultan he is also called Defender of the Faith. He has said that all the faiths are to be respected in his country. He told Marshal Pétain and the Nazis, ‘There are no Jews in Morocco. There are only Moroccan subjects.’ It cheered me up a bit when Papa told me that because whenever I saw the notices I thought about Felix and how the smile would go out of his eyes if he read those hateful words. I hope he knows what the Sultan has said. Papa says kindness is one of the most important things in the world but a lot of people seem to have forgotten that nowadays. I gave Annette a meaningful look at that point but she just ignored me as usual.
When we got to the Habous, Maman gave me some pocket money to spend however I wanted. I spotted a beautiful wooden box on one of the stalls, inlaid with mother-of-pearl in a design a little like the tiles on the floor in our house. First of all, the man behind the stall told me it cost way more than I could afford. But Annette gave me a nudge and told me to haggle a bit. The man thought it was quite funny that I asked for a much lower price and at first he refused, but he let me hold the box and showed me what excellent quality it was. I agreed that it was indeed, but then I showed him all my pocket money, which was 5 francs. He told me to ask my beautiful sister to give me some more money but Annette said, ‘No way!’ I put the box back down on the stall then and started to walk away, but the man saw how disappointed I was and he called me back. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘We have a deal.’
I’m so happy with my beautiful wooden box. It smells like the Habous (the best bits, not the stinky goat hides and the places where stray dogs have peed) – which is to say of soft spices and fragrant oils. Maman says it’s made of a kind of wood called sandalwood and it will always have that smell. I’ve put the gold star necklace in it to keep it safe while I can’t wear it. I think it’s a very good place for it.
When I got home I showed my new box to Kenza and Nina and they agreed it was an excellent purchase. Next time I get some pocket money I’ll go back to the same stall and buy another one like it for Nina. She and I are friends now. We still mostly talk in French, but I’m teaching her a few words of English too. You never know when it might come in handy. Her eyes are as warm and kind as her mother’s and she laughs a good deal, especially when I tell her what life used to be like in Paris before the war turned everything upside down. I used to have to go to deportment classes where I had to practise walking up and down with a heavy Larousse dictionary on my head. She finds that very funny. Once, when everyone else was out at a tea dance, I showed Nina all Annette’s bottles and jars lined up on the shelf in the bathroom. Nina tried on a little rouge and I put on some lipstick. We both found that completely hilarious.
She and I like playing hopscotch in the courtyard behind the house. It’s nice and shady there. There’s a pomegranate tree and the air smells of the jasmine that scrambles up the walls and over a trellised archway. I brought my skipping rope with me from home and we take it in turns to see who can keep jumping the longest. I’m winning at the moment, but Nina is getting pretty good at it so she’ll probably overtake me one of these days. I let her take the skipping rope home with her sometimes so she can practise.
After we’ve finished our skipping and hopscotch, Kenza gives us lemonade and soft cookies called ghoribas in the kitchen. That’s one of my favourite times of day.
When Papa got back from waiting in line at the American consulate he looked tired and a bit preoccupied, but he says he quite likes spending time in the queue because you meet all sorts of other interesting people with stories to tell. People have come here from all over Europe, escaping from the war. Some of them will have had a hard time, I think, with all the unkindness that’s around at the moment, but Papa doesn’t tell me those sorts of stories. Instead he told me a funny one about a lady who had managed to travel to Casablanca with her little dog, which was a poodle called Minou. Both Minou and the lady had the same hairstyle, although the lady’s was a delicate shade of blue and Minou’s was pure white. She was giving the American officials a hard time because she was demanding a visa for her dog as well as for herself. The story was funny up to that point. But you can’t actually get visas for dogs, that’s why so many of them get left behind and become strays. Then the story became quite sad because I think the lady and Minou will have to stay here in Casablanca for ever. At least the lady will be happy to be with her dog. I’m very glad Minou won’t get left behind.
I hope they won’t be sent back to France, though.
I asked Papa if he’s ever bumped into Felix’s parents at the consulate but he hasn’t. He says he’ll keep an eye out for them, though, next time he goes.
After some mint tea, Papa picked up his hat and told Maman he was going out again. When she asked him where he was off to, he said he’d met an interesting man at the consulate who had told him about a group that meets in the mellah to discuss current affairs. Maman raised her eyebrows quite high at that and told Papa to be careful if he was planning on spending time in the Jewish Quarter. He just smiled and gave her a kiss, saying she shouldn’t worry so much and he’d be back in time for supper. But I could tell she really was still a bit worried, even though I can’t see what’s wrong with talking about boring things like the war if Papa really wants to. We already hear more than enough about it on the radio every day in my opinion. We’re supposed to listen to Radio Maroc, but sometimes Papa listens to the BBC, which is from England and tells quite a different story about how the war is going. I used to think the news was about reporting all the facts, but if you listen to those two different radio stations you soon learn otherwise.